


I Chose You

by Yombatable



Series: YOMBAT WRITES THE OTP [23]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Well - Freeform, almost, also sooooo sappy, and, and with, because I do what I want., bottom Scotland, it's Valentine's day!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 06:21:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5994652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yombatable/pseuds/Yombatable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ScotEng smut with a side-order of soulmate AU, because it wouldn't be a Yombatable fic if I didn't make it sappy as all fuck.</p>
<p>(Happy Valentine's Day! ;D)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Chose You

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote actual ScotEng smut? What? No way! 
> 
> Well, I figured it was about time. It's sappy af, but idc it's fiine, like I said in the description, it wouldn't be one of my fics if it wasn't fluffy and disgusting. Writing my own smut turned out to have the added bonus of the fact that I can have Scotty on the bottom, because he's never on the bottom and I'm so in love with Scotland bottoming, because he's a baby who likes being the centre of attention in bed. Ahhhhh... Aaanyways! Ignore me and just read it already.
> 
> (I've also decided it's part of the IitB 'verse, so that's a thing.)
> 
> Enjoy! ;)

               “You know,” England drawled happily, his hands sliding down Scotland’s legs to spread them further, and drawing the slightest of sharp breaths from the northerner. His lips pressed against the short line of text that curved over his right buttock, “I always wondered why, out of all the soul marks on your body, _mine_ had to be the one on your arse.”

               Scotland hummed out a pleased sound as England’s  lips travelled up to his lower back, his hands now tracing teasingly up and down his inner thighs. “It’s a metaphor for your personality.” He replied, a grin spreading over his face as that earned him a sharp slap to the very spot where the text sat.

               “I honestly don’t know why I don’t gag you,” England mused, pressing a few kisses to the red spot on Scotland’s arse where his hand had landed, “You’re so much more attractive when you can’t talk.”

               “You wouldn’t,” Scotland grinned, unconsciously spreading his legs further as he stretched himself forward, showing off every gloriously defined muscle of his back. Had Arthur not been so preoccupied by other parts of Scotland’s body he’d have allowed himself to lick his way up that curved spine. “You like what my mouth does too much.”

               England hummed in acknowledgement, reaching to the side for the bottle which had been sat there for several minutes longer than planned. Since, in fact, he’d once again got distracted by the mark on Scotland’s arse written in a language that he hadn’t spoken since he was a newly born nation. He remembered saying those words to Scotland when they first met, when their mother had introduced them, remembered feeling the back of his neck itch when Scotland had greeted him back.

               He had similar ones, from other nations, from people in his history, a nation was doomed to be littered with text, inked deep and black in your soulmates’ hand over whichever piece of flesh fate deemed appropriate. None were more significant than others, but sometimes it felt that way.

               When you were together, sharing trust and intimacy and breath, all the other sentences but your own seemed to fade into unimportance.

               Scotland let out a deep and needy moan of anticipation as the plastic cap of the lube bottle clicked open. England chuckled, watching the muscles in Scotland’s back and thighs tense and loosen.

               “I haven’t even touched you yet poppet,” He said, spreading the liquid over his fingers before dropping it beside himself once again. He shuffled forward, running his fingers down Scotland’s arse until he heard a growled whimper come from further up the bed.

               “Don’t bother prepping me England,” He groaned, pressing his arse back, “I hate how you always make me fuck-mmmmnn~”

               England felt his lips twitch up at the reaction he’d gotten to shoving two of his fingers abruptly into Scotland’s entrance. He was tighter than expected, obviously they hadn’t been sleeping together enough recently. England suspected that Scotland wouldn’t have enjoyed himself quite as much as he claimed if he’d just gone straight in. Let it never be said that Scotland didn’t like it rough, but even still, the horny bitch wouldn’t know how the meaning of patience if you made him read the definition repeatedly straight form the dictionary.

               “See,” England simpered, biting lightly at his soulmark once again as he began the process of prepping Scotland torturously slow with his two fingers, “Look at you, so eager for my dick you can’t even wait.” He licked a line down to his thighs, biting and sucking small bruises into the skin there that would be gone before they’d even finished. A shame, really, because the sight of a Scotland covered in scratches and love-bites was entirely too satisfying a thought. “Not to worry poppet, I can, you’re going to be nice and loose before I fuck you tonight.”

               “ _Oh_! _England,_ ” Scotland gasped, and England suspected it was because of the sudden thrust and twist of his fingers more than what he’d said. Scotland moaned, long and drawn out, his hands tightening in the sheets and the blush flooding over his neck and shoulders heating up into a deep red rather than rosy pink. “Oh god, fuck.”

               Ah, and England loved how little it took to get a reaction out of him, the slightest curl of his fingers enough to ruin his measured and already heaving breaths into sharp gasps and long moans.

               “What? No witty come-back?” England asked, his free hand curling around to Scotland’s front to run his fingers teasingly light over his hips and stomach.

               Scotland shook his head, curling his arms up to bury his face in, his voice coming out muffled, “If I tried I’d just end up snapping at you to make you go-oh!- faster.”

               England frowned at the sight before him, leaned forward and reaching out to take Scotland’s bicep in his hand, “Get out of there, I want to see your face.”

               Scotland lifted his head at that, resting it on top of his forearms and looking back at England with an expression which was equal parts irritation and adoration, his mouth parted the smallest amount so panted puffs of air could escape. But the blush which spread up his cheekbones all the way to the tips of his ears was by far the thing that England loved the most. It should have looked ugly, brought out his freckles and red hair in all the wrong ways but somehow…

               “You’re so pretty, Scotland.” England breathed as Scotland puffed out a moan, pushing back onto England’s fingers, “No, that’s not even enough, you’re gorgeous, stunning… No, utterly indescribable.”

               Scotland grinned, his eyes falling shut, “You’re such a sap in the sack.”

               England hummed, “Only like this. Believe it or not, Scotland, I do sometimes just want to show you I love you.”

               The grin turned soft, and Scotland wiggled against England’s hold, “Let me turn over, I want to kiss you.”

               England removed himself from Scotland’s person long enough for the Scotsman to flip over, but not long enough for him to take in anything more than Scotland’s arms reaching up to pull him down on top of him. Their kiss wasn’t hard like they usually were in bed, it was soft, twisting slowly into something deep. It began with a long open-mouthed press of lips, until tongues darted out to press together languidly and they curled into each other, sucking lewd, wet noises from the other’s lips. Scotland’s hands clasped around England’s neck, and England knew he was tracing the line of his soulmark with his thumb, the pattern unmistakably spelling out the words that were written there. England’s hands gripped Scotland’s buttocks, at any other time a risqué gesture, now simply doing the same as Scotland was doing.

               They stayed like this for some time, their hips absentmindedly grinding out a gentle rhythm that was just enough to earn the odd groan or whimper.

               It was only a good while later that Scotland’s broke the kiss by the tiniest amount to breathe out a quiet, “Fuck me, England.” His legs squeezing around where they’d wrapped themselves around England’s waist.

               England himself just nodded with a wide but soft smile, moving to sit up before being stopped abruptly by the arms and legs clamping down around him.

               “We don’t need lube, you already did it, _please England_ , just…” And there was that tone. The one England had learned to equate with a Scotland who had been allowed to stray too far into the sea of affection, who was so close to drowning in it.

               England had learned not to argue with this Scotland. For the most part he didn’t want to, and the bit that did could never bring himself to say no to those eyes that just _begged_ for him not to move away.

               “I need to move a little.” He said teasingly, reaching his hands up to brush over Scotland’s cheeks.

               Scotland huffed out a laugh, that look of longing affection not leaving his eyes, letting his arms and legs loosen enough for England to prop him up with a pillow and position himself at Scotland’s entrance.

               Another brush to Scotland’s cheeks, “Ready poppet?”

               Scotland nodded, “Yes, England, _please_ …”

               When he pushed in they moaned in unison, and then they both huffed out matching laughs at their own predictability. It was then that Scotland pulled England back close to him, hunching over enough to kiss him again. And there they stayed again for a moment, until England started grinding down in short, slow thrusts, making Scotland gasp out a soft, “ _More_.”

               England obliged without much argument, making his thrusts longer, but no less laguid, determined to draw this out because watching Scotland’s head fall back against the pillows, his hair falling in a half-tangled mass around his head, and the flush rising even higher on his cheeks… damn was it irresistibly gorgeous.

               His hands abandoned their place on England’s neck after a long moment of slow thrusts and laboured breathing, falling up to tangle in his own hair, his head falling to the side as a deep moan rumbled out from deep in his chest.

               With his newfound freedom, England reached down to grip Scotland’s dick, stroking it just as slowly as he was thrusting. “Mmmn, fuck _yes_ , England,” Scotland choked out afterwards, his hands going to grip into the sheets because they no longer knew what to do now they weren’t holding England down.

               England replied with a soft moan of his own, kissing down Scotland’s collarbone, “You feel so good,” he sighed, “Oh darling, how I love you.”

               Scotland choked out a moan at that, “I love you too, you’re so good. So good to me. Feels so good. So _good_ …”

               England smiled at Scotland’s babbling, familiar and utterly welcome. He leaned in to kiss him again, his thrusts and jerks of his hand picking up in speed as the pooling of heat in his stomach became harder and harder to ignore as the kiss went on.

               Scotland’s hands remained clutched in his own hair and the sheets for a time, until England caught a thrust _just right_ , making him arch up, the kiss breaking momentarily as he threw his head back, but not for long, his hands soon flying up and into England’s hair, and crashing their lips together roughly.

               From then on it stopped being gentle and just became desperate, hands clutching at each other anywhere they could reach, kisses sloppy in between begging for _more England please please yes fuck oh yes!_

               When Scotland came, it was with a grip so tight around England, that anyone weaker than him probably would have been crushed between his thighs. His head once again thrown back, so he could let out a long and slurred moan of England’s name. Once he came down, he moaned lightly with each of England’s thrusts, squeezing around the dick inside him until-

               “Oh _Scotland_!”

               England came too, riding it out with increasingly lazy thrusts until he stopped entirely.

               The two of them took a moment to catch their breaths, their foreheads pressed together and noses brushing.

               When England tried to pull out Scotland held him there, his thighs still tight around England’s hips, shaking his head with eyes tightly closed, “Not yet, I’m not- not yet.”

               England laughed lightly, settling back down and dutifully ignoring the mess between them, before Scotland could seriously crush him. He ran a thumb under Scotland’s eye, picking up a tear that had somehow failed to escape, “And you called _me_ a sap in bed.”

               Scotland laughed back, opening his eyes, green and bright and gorgeous and England sighed a little at seeing them, like the love-sick fool he hated himself for being. “I never said I wasn’t,” He replied, his smile turning small and fond, “We both are. I mean, look at you, you’re not even trying to hide it.”

               “You bear my mark on your skin, I bear yours on mine, we are each other’s soulmates, bound by a magic not even the Fae understand.” England said, his eyes travelling  slowly over Scotland’s face, taking in every single minute detail for what must be the millionth time. He knew he’d never tire of it though, never in thousands of years.

               “We both have a hundred soulmates.” Scotland replied, his eyes darting away, and England could practically _feel_ his insecurity in the way his body tensed.

               England nodded then, leaning down to pepper kisses down Scotland’s still flushed cheekbone. “That may be true, but you’re the one I chose.” He said softly, his hands running reverently over his shoulders and neck.

               Scotland’s eyes refocused on him, a light gasp, barely audible but there all the same, passing through his lips. There was a moment of silence between them, in which they just stared at each other, their faces close and their breaths mingling and still curled tightly together.

               He kissed England then, and he didn’t have to reply with words because the kiss said it all.

_I chose you too_.


End file.
